


head first

by bloom_bloom



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Intrusive Thoughts, Just Straight Up Sad, Sad, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, if you would even call it that, not a fun time, sorry - Freeform, sorry changbin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloom_bloom/pseuds/bloom_bloom
Summary: "i'm drowning, and you're standing three feet away screaming, 'learn how to swim.'"-cj
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	head first

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it's been a while. sorry for being so mia. i have this nasty writers block so i hope that this quick fic isn't that bad, sorry for any mistakes as usual. i'm just trying to get out of this funk. so what better way than writing another vent fic with poor binnie.
> 
> i hope that you enjoy this and will leave a comment, any sort of feedback really makes my day. 
> 
> thanks a lot!

He hated feeling like this, it just left him feeling so immobile and braindead. All he could do was just lay on the carpeted floor. It wasn’t even comfortable, he could feel the crumbs and dust imprint his cheeks. He could feel his back start to strain in pain from being in the same position on the hard uncushioned carpet. But he liked to stare at the little loops of fabric and pick at them mindlessly while he layed with his earbuds in, only one though. He didn’t like the feeling of how one would press into his ear if he were to lay on it. He played his music a little quieter than he liked but he didn’t have it in him to just press one button and fix the small discomfort. He could live with it, he knew his ears would adjust to the sound and it would soon be just right. 

When he felt like this his mind only had the option to think of the things that made him cry. His mind would go to how ugly he was. To the point where he wouldn’t want to leave the house in fear that he would knowingly disgust the people around him with how repulsive he looked. His mind would drill the fact that he was in the same clothes for the past three days and stunk of a middle school boy’s locker room. That only aided him with the need to stay home so that he wouldn’t cry in public. Because when he felt like this he couldn’t even brush his hair let alone take a shower. 

A mood like this would take him hostage in his own home. A place that was supposed to bring him calmness and relief. A mood like this would ruin any sacred place he thought he had. A mood like this would make his chest tighten with no hope of release. It would make him yearn for the feeling of fresh air filling his lungs and the comforting coldness that it brought. But he couldn’t open the door. The farthest he would get would be just standing in front of it and staring.

He couldn’t shake this mood, so he let it overtake him. He let it grab him by the neck and force him headfirst underwater. He let it drown him. 

He didn’t know why tears would fall from his eyes for no reason at all or for every reason the existed. He didn’t know why starving when in a mood like this would feel so rewarding. He didn’t know why he didn’t have any energy and was left to just sit and stare at nothing. He couldn’t get mad at this mood but he could get mad at himself.

He could yell at himself forever and this mood would just grow off of it. He could yell at himself for being so unbelievably ugly. Or for how he wasn’t good at anything, how he wasn’t special, how he wasn’t confident in anything about himself. How no one ever loved him, how he couldn’t trust people and instead feared them. Because this was all his fault wasn’t it. He did all of this. 

This mood would make looking in the mirror sick to his stomach. How could anyone be this disgusting when they try so hard not to be? 

He just wanted to feel special. He wanted to look in the mirror one day and not have it make him want to stay home and cry for how he looked. He was so tired of this mood. But he let it pull him under, make it hard for him to breathe. He doesn’t even know how to swim. 

But it’s ok, he would bend to please anything. Even something that wasn’t even tangible. He would stay like this just so the mood that surrounded him and lived in his head would be happier than himself. And that’s ok, it always was.

He didn’t want to get help so that this mood could possibly be exterminated. He couldn’t do this because he felt like a dirty liar. The moment he sat down to explain these pains to anyone he would tell himself that he is exaggerating and blowing everything out of proportion. That he was just someone who was weak and couldn’t handle reality. That he created all these feelings to get attention and he would become a bother to everyone around him. He told himself that all the times he felt that dying would be easier than living was just him being dramatic. 

So he was stuck in a vicious cycle. One that consisted of feeling ok, getting drowned by this ‘mood’, and wanting to get help on the verge of tears but always backing out. But it was all ok. He told himself that he liked laying on the carpet and being house ridden for the weekends. He told himself that he was just exaggerating. Because he was, wasn’t he?


End file.
